Afraid of the Dark
by Abstract Wonder
Summary: After Sarah defeated the Labyrinth, she did her best to forget the whole experience, including the dark, seductive Goblin King. Now, however, her ghosts are catching up to her again and it is a fight that can give her closure...or break her entirely J/S
1. Prologue

A/N: Kind of just hit me. Then, of course, it needed to be written. And posted. And, hopefully, enjoyed.

To make it less confusing: It's been a few months since Sarah returned Aboveground, and she's be doing her darndest to forget Jareth and the rest of the Layrinth. Unfortunately, the Labyrinth is refusing to return the favor...

* * *

Fear. Twisting, writhing, wrapping dark tentacles around her heart. She shouldn't give in, she knows, but it is so hard to fight. And she is so tired already from hiding the effort. Why won't they leave her alone? Was she so important to them? To him?

_Perhaps._

The voices mock her, and she makes a face at them, unable even to conjure up a retort. Not like they'd be able to hear her, anyway.

_Fool. We can hear it all. Every wish, every dream, every stupid, irrational fear you've ever had. _

And it always seems to come back to that. The fear. She is tired of fear. She is exhausted from fleeing her ghosts. But they haven't caught up with her yet, and she'll be damned before she lets them get ahold of her without a fight. But then, she probably already is. Damned. They're singing to her now, and not in a nice way. Their crooning brushes lightly over her mind, stinging like a paper cut. One voice, in particular, stands out. But then, his voice had always been exceptional.

_Should it hurt to love you? Should I feel like I do? Should I… _

So what? So what if she's wrong. They have no right to punish her for it. In this, they are as guilty as she. In this realm they have power. They whisper into her ears all the time now; growing braver and more daring each time she fails to block them out. Seducing, taunting, laughing. But if they are powerful, so is she.

_Pitiful. You're a disappointment. Is this really all you can manage? To think I believed you might be fun to play with. We can break you in an instant. _

No. You can't, she screams. You aren't really there. But they are, and they won't leave. Signs of her mental distress are leaking into the physical aspects of her life—she can see it in the dark circles under her eyes, in the crescent shaped scars on her palms from forcing herself to keep still in public. They delight in taunting her at all hours of the day, in the presence of others especially. She fears she is losing herself in this fight.

_Why do you resist?_ _You hurt only yourself, in the end._

They're being gentle now? She finds that difficult to believe, and shores up her defenses even more. He won't touch her here, in her domain. Because this _is_ her territory, and she will not be beaten. Not now, and not by him. He alone speaks to her now, and the rest fade away until she can't hear them anymore.

_What concern have I for _territory_? You certainly had no respect for mine._

He is bitter, and at last she begins to understand him, just a little bit. And she pities him for it. He doesn't want her pity.

_That's right. _

She can almost see him smiling dangerously through the mirror. Her heartbeat quickens. But as soon as the thought crosses her mind, the mirror once again reflects only her pale face.

_I want all of you._

A piece of the puzzle falls into place, and some of the fear melts away. He won't damage her irreparably until he is sure he won't get her back again. That is a small reassurance, but a comfort nonetheless. Unwisely, he has left her some room to manuever. "I wish…"

The sudden silence in her mind is deafening. She can hear him catch his breath in anticipation.

She smiles slightly, sharing a secretive look with her reflection. Then she stands and turns away from the mirror, leaving the phrase unfinished. The voices howl in frustrated anger, but he is no longer among them so she has no difficulty in shutting them out now.

He will wait, biding his time, believing himself to be in control. And while he does, she will find a way to defeat him. Again.

The thought brings a dangerous smile to her lips as she exits the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

* * *

Review if you want a continuation and a real story, complete with PLOT. Plots are nice. Sometimes. Will be Jareth/Sarah--no negotiation on that front.


	2. Sacrifice

A/N: Hah! Bet you thought this was done with! WRONG!

...oh, wait. That was me. Anyway, enjoy!

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(-set 8 years after the prologue, and the Labyrinth incident-)

_Men fear Death, as children fear to go in the dark;  
__and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other_  
-Francis Bacon

It was unusually warm for September, but the cool breeze from the lake made it tolerable. Sarah was grateful for that, at least, as she jogged through the park near her new home. It wasn't right to be sweating so close to winter.

The sun had set, and night was closing in by the time she made it back to the house. She didn't mind that the weather was too hot—but she had always been afraid of the dark.

Stepping inside, she kicked off her sneakers and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. Before she'd even turned on the tap, her phone rang. She froze with her arm outstretched, the empty glass taunting her. If she straightened her arm, she could touch it.

Sighing, she backtracked into the entryway and picked up the phone.

"Sarah Williams."

"Sarah! Oh thank God!" a young woman's panicked voice echoed across the phone line, "Jacob's gone missing again! Is he at your house?"

"No. At least, not unless he broke in." Sarah frowned, and called out loudly, "Jacob!"

There was no answer. She turned back to the phone, and the hysterical mother on it. "Look Cynthia, he's not here. Have you checked the park? The garage? The basement?"

There was a pause, then, "Well, I checked the basement…"

Sarah bit back a sigh of frustration. "Go check the park and the garage, and call me back."

"Okay," Cynthia said timidly. "Bye."

Sarah hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch. Really. She was an FBI agent, not a babysitter. But she never could help getting worried whenever Cynthia called—which was often—about her headstrong six year old son. It was too much like…well, she didn't really want to go into that again. The similarities were disconcerting.

But it was comforting to think that Cynthia, at age twenty nine, was not as reckless as Sarah had been as a teenager. Well, probably.

After fifteen anxious minutes the phone rang again, and Sarah snatched it up. "Cynthia?"

There was a pause on the other end, and a confused voice said, "No. This is Ryan. You know, the guy you work with. Behavioral Analysis Unit?"

"Oh. Hello, Ryan."

"You sound disappointed," he noted. "And look, I'm sorry to call you so late but there's just been a double homicide on the corner of Westfield and Marsh. Michael sent Lena to check it out, and it's bad."

"Bad, as in 'I'd better get my ass into the office right now' bad?"

"Yeah. That kind."

She hung up the phone. Was there ever any _other_ kind of trouble? Ten minutes later she was back out on the street, and revving the engine of her old Audi as she backed up and sped off to the Federal Building.

------------------------------

Ryan met her at the front door. He was extremely agitated—she could see it in the way his old nervous habits were beginning to surface; tapping his feet, drumming his fingers against the doorframe.

She walked a bit faster.

"What is it?"

He barely spared her a glance. "Follow me. Lena's come back with the pictures."

The rest of the team was already assembled when Ryan escorted Sarah into the room—she liked to call it, "the brain room"—and there were pictures scattered around the surface of the dark wooden table. Lena, the girl who had retrieved them, was sitting at the end of the table with her face in her hands.

Lena was a strong girl. The victims must have looked awful.

Sarah approached and picked up the first photograph. And immediately wanted to set it back down again. But she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind, and pulled forth the clinical Sarah, the one whose reactions were completely controllable. This Sarah didn't flinch at the sight of the girl spread across the makeshift altar, unseeing eyes staring directly into the camera lens. This Sarah took careful note of the runes carved into her skin and along the blade of the knife that lay nearby.

Strange runes, they were. But somewhat familiar…

"Ryan said it was a double. Who was the other?"

"Nobody directly involved, we think." Michael, the unit leader, answered. "He was shot, not butchered. They found him under the bridge nearby; people have been able to identify him as one of the bums that hangs around that place regularly. He must have seen what was happening and tried to stop it."

_He got unlucky tonight. It isn't fair. And I'm sure _she_ wanted nothing to do with this either._

Sarah set down the picture and swallowed hard. Ryan looked at her, grim. Michael said,

"Let's get started. Any ideas?"

"Statistically, he's probably Caucasian. Male." Lena offered, not raising her head from her hands. Sarah's heart ached for her; the pictures alone were bad enough. To have seen the actual bodies…

"Twenties to early thirties," Ryan added. "Sexual offender? She _was_ very pretty…"

_Before he carved her up._ The unspoken words seemed to hang in the air. But Lena raised her eyes and shook her head, dark curls bouncing. "No. No rape."

"So, Satan worship, maybe? From the marks on her body." Michael said.

"No." Sarah said quietly. But they all heard, and turned to look at her. "No, not Satan."

"How do you know this wasn't devil worship?" Michael asked skeptically.

"The symbols and the plain altar are all that he worked with. No pentagrams, circles, candles, dead cats. Uncharacteristic. Besides, these runes are old Irish, or something similar."

He looked at her. "You can tell just by looking at them?"

"I've…seen these somewhere before," Sarah said slowly. "I don't remember enough to make a solid conclusion, but I know someone who does."

"Then get moving."

-----------------------------

She had told herself she was never going back. And she wasn't…exactly. More like, taking a few steps in that direction. And then stopping; yes, mustn't forget to stop.

She pulled her car into the tiny lot and stepped out, wiping her slightly sweaty hands against her jeans. Why had she come here, again?

Oh yeah. People were being murdered.

Steeling herself, she stepped away from the safety of her engine on wheels, and stared at the shop in front of her. The faded green awning with gold trim was drooping slightly, almost obscuring the matching gold leaf on the windows that spelled out _Destiny: The World of Celtic Mythology. _It hadn't changed a bit.

But she had, and that was what mattered.

The bell above the door tinkled merrily as she pushed it open, and there was a responding crash from the other end of the store. Before her mind caught up with her she was twisting her lips in familiar exasperation and pushing through the crowded bookcases toward the back.

"What have you done now?" she sighed as she reached the far end of the store. A little, white bearded old man lay under a pile of musty old volumes, coughing. A stepladder lay on its side a few feet away.

He brightened when he saw her, and struggled to sit up. "Sarah! It is good to see you again. My, but it's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes, thankfully, it has been," she muttered under her breath, extending a hand to help him up. He clutched it gratefully and she heaved him to his feet. He brushed dust and lint from his hair and beard, and smiled.

"Well, what can I do for you?"

Wordlessly, she tugged the pictures out of her purse and handed them over. His face fell as he studied them, the good humor fading away and leaving only a blank mask. She thought she saw fear flicker behind his eyes before he closed them.

"When did this happen?"

"Recently. Tonight. Or, rather, last night," she amended, glancing at her watch. He nodded and moved away, muttering to himself and running a hand along the shelves as he passed them by. Sarah leaned against the wall to wait.

Ten minutes later he was back with an ancient looking manuscript, written in a language she couldn't decipher. "What is this?"

He shot her an irritated look. "Gaelic. And it's very old, young lady, so don't touch it."

"Wasn't going to." _Wouldn't want to._ "Unless I have to. Which I would if I thought it was pertinent to this investigation."

"You wouldn't be able to read it, anyway. Almost no one remembers the old language anymore." He looked rather sad as he said this, and just for a moment Sarah could see the years pressing down on him. Centuries of binding. And this shop was his prison. She shuddered.

"But you can read this?"

"Yes, but that is not important. I don't have to. But he does."

"He?" Sarah blinked, confused.

"Your killer, of course." He gave her a disparaging look, making it all too clear exactly what he thought about her level of intelligence.

"Uh huh. And why would he have to read_ that_?"

"Because, Sarah," he told her solemnly, "he is attempting to open the gate. The gate to the Underground."

This news hit her like a ton of bricks, and was about as welcome. "Is that even possible?"

"Obviously. Otherwise we wouldn't be speaking of it. The autumnal equinox approaches, correct? He will take advantage of the thinning boundary between worlds to rip a hole in it, and believe me child, if the two worlds were to collide in such a manner yours would not be the one left standing."

_Your world._ His eyes gleamed in the half-light, and she took an involuntary step backwards. She couldn't afford to keep forgetting what he _was_.

"So how can I stop this?"

"Simple. Even one such as you should be able to guess."

She could. "I have to kill him, don't I?"

He nodded. "And before the equinox. When is it, this year?"

"Twentieth of September." She could feel it approaching, creeping closer with every hour that slipped away. Equinoxes and solstices were awful days for her--the amount of free magic in the air was enough to make her sick for a week.

"Ah. I would hurry, then, if I were you. This man is clearly deranged—no marginally sane person would wish the denizens of the Underground on his world. And I have no desire to see my King again, bound as I am."

_No shit._ Sarah thought, but bit her tongue to keep from saying it aloud.

Instead she bid farewell to the trapped member of the Fey court and left the shop in a hurry. She had spent a lot of time there after defeating the Labyrinth, when magic still fascinated her and she believed herself in control.

After her visit to the Underground, and the Labyrinth, she had come back with certain…abilities. She could see things that had been hidden from her before, and she was drawn to things, and people, of magic.

She had been a fool. But damn if she was going to make the same mistakes this time…time?

_Is it time, now?_ She felt the stirring in the back of her consciousness, as the voices began to wake. She slammed them back into their place and turned her mind to other things. She'd learned to master them long ago, but being in the presence of others of their kind tended to make them restless. That was why she had stopped visiting the shop, or so she told herself.

Maybe she just hadn't wanted to be reminded anymore.

----------------

She was so tired she made the turn five blocks early and found herself passing by the courthouse instead of the Federal building. She glanced at the digital clock on her dashboard, and the glowing numbers seemed to burn a hole into her eyes.

3:11 am.

She needed to get home and get some rest. But instead she was parking illegally in front of the huge building she worked in—when she wasn't out on the streets—and stumbling up the front steps. The bums with their extended coffee cups, rattling the coins and pleading for more, eyed her suspiciously. She probably deserved it.

All she had to do now was get the damn report done with, and the entire team could all go home. If they hadn't already, that is. If they had she was taking tomorrow off.

As suspected, the conference room was empty when she arrived. Growling in frustration, she stalked out and over to the wall lined with offices larger than her living room. The offices for the less important, such as herself, were on the upper levels. Her own cubicle was probably about as big as her bathroom. Which wasn't usually a problem—the men with the big offices actually needed to _use _them.

Michael camped out in one of those, when he wasn't home with the latest girlfriend. He'd better be there now.

He was.

She didn't bother to knock. He glanced up at her approach, running a hand through his short blond hair.

"What did you come up with?"

She exhaled, closing her eyes. "I was right. They're…Celtic. Our killer is trying to open a gate to another world."

What she didn't tell him was that it was actually possible. She didn't tell him that she'd _been_ to this other world, and _seen_ how catastrophic the results would be if this killer succeeded. He would have had her off the case in two seconds flat, and on psychiatric leave for months. Some secrets were better left alone.

She heard Michael's sigh and cracked an eye open to gauge his reaction. He looked almost as tired as she felt.

"Well, that's new. But the premise, that we can work with. Fantasy world. Isolation from an early age. Lacking the ability to interact properly. Go home and get some rest Sarah. You're useless unless you can provide more than one functioning brain cell."

She was too tired even to protest. Instead she turned and dragged herself out the door and into her car where, thankfully, there hadn't been any ticketing. She drove home in a half daze, and almost passed her house right by.

At that moment all she wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Or die. But she still had one more thing that needed doing.

Too bad she was practically dead on her feet. It was always better to be firing on all cylinders when dealing with him.

Resigned to the task, she plopped down in front of the large mirror in her bedroom and stared at her reflection. Green eyes ringed with dark circles, framed by mussed brown hair met her gaze. She looked like something the cat dragged in. Not that it mattered. It wasn't as if she were trying to impress anyone.

_Oh, really? _

She was too tired, apparently, even for mental walls. The voices in the back of her mind stretched cautiously, pressing against her consciousness. She let them be for a minute, gathering her strength, before shaking them away.

She straightened her spine and spoke directly to the mirror.

"I would have words with you, Goblin King."

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Yep. Just wait until next time! Please review!

Notes: If the death or language in this chapter bothered you, this story is probably not your cup of tea. But you are welcome to drink it anyways.

Thank you to last chapter's reviewers:

**Twilight Lover 100**: thank you! I have big plans for this story, too!

**notwritten:** sure! here it is, and I hope you liked it!

**hazlgrnLizzy:** why, thank you! I hope this lives up to expectations!

**LaniC:** yeah, Sarah definately knows who is boss! But Jareth would challange you on that one...


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